Tomorrow, a new point of view
WHO: Ion and a Hungarian woman
WHEN: Tuesday, May 17th and rather late in the evening
WHERE: A park
WHAT: "How do you..."
The music plays all day long.
One of those nameless public parks with the faded hardwood benches and cracked cement walkways, abandoned playgrounds, and neglected ponds was the backdrop to the picture he formed, cigarette smoke the hazy frame, and the barely-there sliver of moon made the pin on which the entire portraiture formed. Flaking paint revealed the rusting metal of the bench frame and the sun-bleached wood beneath him squeaked quietly as he shifted to pull another cigarette from the pack in his coat pocket.
May had gotten colder very suddenly.
He coughed heavily as he groped for his lighter, the congestion heavy and stubbornly sticking in his chest, and a flush of color high on his cheeks; he’d tell anyone that asked that it was just a cold. It probably was. A cold and…and he was tired from all the overtime he’d be doing to cover sudden expenses. No rest for the wicked though and the world paused for no one. Mihailo had finally come home and yet Ion somehow felt like something had changed. There was a difference in how the man spoke to him, looked at him, everything, and-
He felt like he’d been left behind, somehow.
He also knew that, rationally, this shouldn’t bother him. He’d been left behind before and left others behind himself. This was no different and he had always gotten in the habit of not getting close to anyone, because that was just opening yourself up to being manipulated, being hurt, or both. Loto had proven that point for him again.
Something was still unsettling about the whole thing, uneasiness tugging his mind back to a night towards the middle of March, the result of that event, how things had developed from there, the reason he was sick now, and why he sort of felt like complete shit. He felt that he should somehow fix this before he went to Monaco and came back to find that the gap had inevitably widened again.
He just didn’t know how.
WHEN: Tuesday, May 17th and rather late in the evening
WHERE: A park
WHAT: "How do you..."
The music plays all day long.
One of those nameless public parks with the faded hardwood benches and cracked cement walkways, abandoned playgrounds, and neglected ponds was the backdrop to the picture he formed, cigarette smoke the hazy frame, and the barely-there sliver of moon made the pin on which the entire portraiture formed. Flaking paint revealed the rusting metal of the bench frame and the sun-bleached wood beneath him squeaked quietly as he shifted to pull another cigarette from the pack in his coat pocket.
May had gotten colder very suddenly.
He coughed heavily as he groped for his lighter, the congestion heavy and stubbornly sticking in his chest, and a flush of color high on his cheeks; he’d tell anyone that asked that it was just a cold. It probably was. A cold and…and he was tired from all the overtime he’d be doing to cover sudden expenses. No rest for the wicked though and the world paused for no one. Mihailo had finally come home and yet Ion somehow felt like something had changed. There was a difference in how the man spoke to him, looked at him, everything, and-
He felt like he’d been left behind, somehow.
He also knew that, rationally, this shouldn’t bother him. He’d been left behind before and left others behind himself. This was no different and he had always gotten in the habit of not getting close to anyone, because that was just opening yourself up to being manipulated, being hurt, or both. Loto had proven that point for him again.
Something was still unsettling about the whole thing, uneasiness tugging his mind back to a night towards the middle of March, the result of that event, how things had developed from there, the reason he was sick now, and why he sort of felt like complete shit. He felt that he should somehow fix this before he went to Monaco and came back to find that the gap had inevitably widened again.
He just didn’t know how.